Better Days
by CandySmile
Summary: .Slight AU. Begins in Season 6 episode 11 "Appointment in Samarra," and continues on from there. Death gives Sam his soul back, but with one small catch: no Great Wall of Sam to protect him. As Sam struggles to discern what's real from what isn't, and is painfully assaulted by poisonous memories of the Cage, Dean slowly unravels, unable to do much more than lend a loving hand.


**TITLE: Better Days**

**SUMMARY: Slight AU. Begins in Season 6 episode 11 "Appointment in Samarra," and continues on from there. Death gives Sam his soul back, but with one small catch: no Great Wall of Sam to protect him. As Sam struggles to discern what's real from what isn't, and is painfully assaulted by poisonous memories of the Cage, Dean slowly unravels, unable to do much more than lend a loving hand.**

**A/N: Hello there. If you are reading this, thank you so much! And welcome. This is my first Supernatural story that I'm posting here on Fanfiction, and I'm so glad I finally gathered the courage to do it! :) Please, enjoy, and review if you fancy, even if just to tell me what I could've done better!**

* * *

He had done it.

Dean Winchester had done it.

Though it had taken copious amounts of ass-kissing, pleading, and offering up various parts of his body, from his toes to his ears, he had managed to talk Death into giving Sam his soul back. Dean didn't think he'd ever been so proud of himself in his life.

After months of traveling with "Sam," he'd picked up on the fact that something was wrong, something was off. Sam had no compassion, not even in regards to Dean. He'd cared little if at all when people were killed, and certainly didn't have a problem ganking them himself if they got in his way.

In retrospect, Dean should have noticed much earlier.

Because even after Jess, after Dad, after Ruby and Meg and any other shit Sam had gone through, he was still Sammy. Still the annoying, sassy little geek Dean was so attached to.

Except after returning from The Pit.

Dean had expected Sam to be more clingy and emotional than ever, even after toughening up over the years. Hell did that to you; it wore you down, made you scream and bleed and beg in ways you would have never thought possible. So, when Sam came back a hard-assed son of a bitch, Dean definitely should have noticed. He should have noticed the uncaring eyes, the way it seemed almost painful for him to show compassion. But he didn't.

Of course, as soon as Cass reported that his freaking _soul _was gone, the inevitable guilt set in. Mostly because Sam, the real Sam, (_his_ Sammy) was still in Hell, had been for years, being tortured and broken in ways Dean often had to stop himself from imagining.

So now, as he sat next to the cot in Bobby's Panic-Room, with Sam-but-not-Sam chained to the it and struggling violently, as Death himself retrieved Sammy's soul from a briefcase (damn, for a horseman of death, and a sign of the apocalypse, Dean had to admit the guy was a pretty smooth son of a bitch), he felt his heart pounding with excitement and fear.  
All Death had agreed to do was put Sam's soul back, no matter what condition it was in, because "I'm not responsible for the state of your brother, and you should consider yourself lucky I'm even batting an eyelash at your predicament." At least, that was how Dean heard it.

Dean was starting to think that maybe his choice hadn't been the best one, especially when Sam started pleading, eyes wide with fear. It was the only emotion Dean had ever seen Soulless Sam come close to expressing honestly.

"Stop. Don't touch me! N-no-NO! Dean, tell him to stop! N-" and then the screaming started.

It was the sound of agony, pure agony, not unlike what Dean had encountered in the Pit. The cries tore at Dean's heart, made him feel sick to his stomach, as he realized what he was doing to Sam was torture. Sam was crying out desperately, back arching in pain, because Dean had decided to do what he thought was best.

Damn, he was a horrible person.

After what seemed like years, Death finally withdrew his hand, the glow fading, and Sam's cries dissipating into small whimpers, which disappeared as he lost consciousness.

Death removed his gloves, tossed them to the ground, and dusted his hands off as if nothing had happened. In fact, Dean could've sworn the son of a bitch looked pleased with himself.

"What the hell took you so long?" Dean felt himself jittering, on edge.

Death paused, one eyebrow raised condescendingly as he turned toward Dean.

"Putting back someone's soul is not like placing a puzzle piece, Dean. It doesn't just snap perfectly into place. You have to find the space for it, and set it down gently, wait to see if your efforts have been successful."

It was Dean's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"And what happens if they haven't been?"

"Well, a number of things could have occurred: cardiac arrest, brain damage, memory loss... Death. Simple risks of the job."

Dean's jaw dropped as he felt the sick feeling in his stomach again, felt the bile threatening to make its way up his throat.

"You mean Sam could have freakin' died? And you didn't think to mention this to me?!"

Death sighed, as cool and collected as ever.

"I only did as you said, Dean. And you never asked about risks." he replied smoothly, and with a smug smile, and a nod of his head, he was gone.

Dean sunk back down into his chair, running a hand over his tired face.

_God, he was getting too old for this shit._

* * *

Several tense hours later, Dean was sitting in Bobby's kitchen, a beer dripping condensation onto the table in front of him. The drink was still completely full, mostly because Dean felt sicker and sicker as each second passed, signifying the growing time Sam had spent deeply unconscious. The only reason Dean's ass wasn't still planted firmly in a chair next to his brother was that he just couldn't take it anymore.

Sam's limp body, sprawled uncomfortably on the too-small cot, face paling by the minute... It had become unbearable. And, of course, he'd begun to entertain the possibility that Sam might never wake up. God... To say he felt regret was an understatement.

Bobby sat in the living room, pouring over anything and everything that might be able to help, but so far, absolutely nothing.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing when he felt the too-long stubble on his chin, yet not motivated enough to do anything about it.

_Dammit, what had happened to them? Everything used to be so easy, so straightforward. They had been just like any other hunters—saving people, hunting monsters, easy, obvious salt-and-burn cases. They had each other, and it used to be enough. But it just wasn't good enough anymore. Ever since-_

Dean stopped mid-thought, tilting his head slightly, listening hard. He could have sworn he'd heard something... Then it came again: a muffled, choked, unidentifiable noise. He frowned, his nerves pumping adrenaline into his limbs, his stomach doing somersaults. He cautiously made his way towards the door to the basement, opening it quietly. He could hear the sound clearly now, and when he realized what it was, his heart dropped like a rock.

It was crying.

It was the soft, painful whimpers of someone who was alone and hurting. And, aside from him and Bobby, Sam was the only one in the house.

Dean was down the stairs and unlocking the massive iron door in three seconds flat, all cautious hunter instincts abandoned, because, dammit, Sammy was awake and scared.

He threw open the door with all of his strength, and if the initial sound of the cries dropped Dean's heart, then the sight of his brother ripped it, still-beating, out of his chest.

Sam was still sobbing, the noises all terror and pain and frustration, as he fought weakly against the restraints strapped around his wrists and ankles. The skin there was becoming red and irritated, and Dean could tell he'd been struggling for a while. His face was pale, like nearly translucent pale, and he was _trembling._

_Dammit._

Sammy was _trembling._ His giant of a baby brother was trembling with fear, trying his hardest to curl up into a ball and protect himself from some monster, some horrible force that Dean couldn't see-that he couldn't kill.

Dean took a silent step forward, and then again when Sam didn't react. He reached Sam's bedside, stopping himself before he could impulsively rip the constraining pieces of fabric off of his brother.

"S-Sammy?" he asked softly, afraid to speak above a whisper.

"D-d-d-d-" Sam stuttered at the sound of his voice, though his eyes stayed gazing vacantly at the ceiling. Dean felt his eyes burn with tears of his own.

"Sammy, you're gonna be alright. I'm getting you out of these things, okay?" he touched the restraints, hoping to show Sam that he was going to free him.

Sam made no move to show that he understood.

Dean steeled himself, and took that as a "Go." He unlocked Sam's wrists first, but Sam's arms stayed firmly at his sides, continuing to tremble and convulsively rotate back and forth, as thought they were still bound.

He stopped there.

"Sammy, I'm gonna help you sit up, okay? C'mon, buddy, I'm here, don't worry."

He braced his hands on Sam's upper arms, gently easing his brother up off of the uncomfortable bed. Sam didn't seem to understand what was happening. He seemed too frail, as Dean touched him, too small and childlike to be the Sasquatch of a little brother that Dean had known his whole life. Sam's eyes looked glazed, lost, like an abused animal in the dark.

Dean leaned Sam's body against his chest, supporting his brother's back and neck, with Sam's head buried in his shoulder.

"Sammy, please, p-please talk to me." Dean whispered. He carded his fingers though Sam's long hair gently, and rubbed feather-light circles on his back.

"N-n-n-n-n-" Sam stuttered again.

"What, Sam? What'd you say?" Dean asked, praying it'd be something good.

"N-n-n-t-t-t-t-r-r-r-l-l-l..." Sam whimpered, suddenly trying to escape Dean's embrace.

Dean froze and swallowed, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry.

"T-try to be a little clearer, buddy," he whispered.

Sam took a shuddering breath through the tears that still ran down his face, a small amount of determination glinting in his eyes as he struggled to control his voice.

"Y-our-r-r-e-e-n-n-t r-r-e-a-l-l," he gasped again, "n-n-n-o-t D'n."

"_Not real."_

_ "Not real" and "not Dean." _

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you have it, folks! Please tell me what you thought, and I'll see you all again soon. :)**


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